


Tilting at Windmills

by lextenou



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/F, POV Female Character, POV First Person, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-26
Updated: 2013-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-21 09:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/898611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lextenou/pseuds/lextenou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helena G. Wells has written something. It doesn't really mean anything. It's just that she's been fighting for so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tilting at Windmills

**Author's Note:**

> Written longhand and transcribed, as any Helena G. Wells story should be. Contains spoilers through series 4.

Journal of H.G. Wells  
4th June, 2013

I've been fighting for a very long time.

At first, I fought to hide who I truly was, how I felt. It was a different day then. Proper daughters did not do as I did. Proper children listened.

I've never been much for "proper".

Charles, my dear, sweet Charles, was always quite supportive of me. I suppose that's why he agreed so readily to assist me with my lie that is now written for the ages. Without him, without my family, I am, as always, lost.

I'd withdrawn, initially, following my discovery of my quickening. Lax though I'd grown, such things were not what I'd planned.

Her smile amongst the cadre of cousins and relations was angelic.

It would have been easier, I suppose, to have been mundane. On the surface at least, it would have been easier.

I believe I myself said it best: the path of least resistance is the path of the loser.

I do not lose.

I fight.

After Charles broke his leg when we were children, I fought for him. It was alarming how quickly he fell into a depression at not being allowed outside.

It was many years later when I understood his depression.

I'd marveled, previously, at the folly of women and men bound by their love.

No, not bound. Cursed. Tortured. Rent asunder.

All for the love of their children.

When first I heard her cries, I marveled differently. I took her into my embrace for the first time and my marvel transformed to worship.

Everything from that moment forward would be for my Christina.

I'd been struggling, successfully, on my own prior to my Christina. My works were making sufficient coin to support us well. My discovery of my calling as a Warehouse agent came quickly upon the heels the birth of my angel.

Then there was the White City. Ferris' giant wheel, and a madman abusing Artifacts.

That fight was successful. Unlike the others he lured, I was not so consigned to a medical school as nameless bones strung together with catgut.

History remembers well how rapid his decline and capture was.

I hold some small hope that the pain I visited upon him did some to balance the cosmic scales. Given his treatment of the Pitezel children and their mother, I only know what I did to him was mere chaff before the wind.

Not like what I visited upon the men who dared to harm my precious Christina.

The memory is troublesome.

Not for their fate.

For the fate of those that knew them. Not quite innocent. Not quite guilty. They existed in the curious greys in which much of humanity resides. 

They would have been spared had the men not touched my Christina.

I fought to be locked away from mankind after that. The loss of my one bright spot so utterly ruined me. I'd nothing left to give but my absence. So, I fought to keep the world safe from me.

Once the world was safe from what I might do, then I fought to keep my wits, my very being from withering into madness.

Restored unbidden, I fought to complete my work. I fought to destroy the world.

And there, for the first time, I knew defeat.

I do not lose.

I looked into her eyes and I knew I wasn't going to lose.

I had already lost.

It was a unique experience.

I welcomed my imprisonment. It gave me time to truly grieve. It also allowed me time to learn of this brave new world and such people in it. 

There is nothing in existence as destructive as hope. 

My reconciliation with myself was one of the more devastating moments of my existence. My due redemption was then stolen from me by a man who knew better.

Don't they always.

Pursuing Artifacts and hiding from others became my raison d'être. I embraced someone else's fight with the last remaining weariness of my soul. Then, I was allowed to...stop.

I've been fighting for a very long time.

When I called her, I was tired.

When she showed on my doorstep, I was tired.

When she proposed a final adventure, I was tired.

I've run out fight. The spark that was once the center of my existence is gone.

She came.

I can no longer fight.


End file.
